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OR, 



SCENES m A eAMBiER'S LIFE. 



For in the foulness of th' example, vice 
Instructive holds a mirror to the g^ood. 

Euripides. 



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OR, 



JNES m A GAMBLER'S LIFE. 




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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873 , by 

HENRY C. PEDDER, 
In the OfHce of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 



CHARACTERS REPRESENTED. 



Malcour 

Mortimer. 

Gaspard. 

Beaumont 

Franklin. 

Arthur. 

Udgar. 

Hubert. 

Gamblers. 

Beatrice. 

Isabel. 

JEudora. 

Spirit of Arthur'' s mother. 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — A Garden hy Moonlight. Arthur. 

Arthur. What a world is this, that in the distribu- 
tion of its wealth, it should dispense with such unequal 
hand its benefits ? Ay, even that our brightest hopes 
are oft defeated by the oppressive rule of poverty ; 
while those more favored by capricious fortune's 
smiles, move on to the attainment of their wishes. 

But see, here comes the polar star of all ray hopes. 
If she but give me the assurance of her love, then am 
I satisfied. Possessed of this, I will defy the sordid 
thoughts of this dull earth ; nor would I barter her 
sweet love for all the gold and silver which this wide 
world contains. 

Enter Isabel. 

Thrice welcome, gentle Isabel. Almost I had de- 
spaired of you, and ray soul grew dark. Now it is 
glorious sunrise in your presence, and I am myself 
again. 

Isabel. Too much you flatter me, my love. Far 
better are you skilled in Cupid's arts than I supposed 
you were. - 

Arthur. Flattery, did you say ? Use not that 
word. I like it not. To flatter and to fawn, may suit 
the common herd who hide their faces in becoming 
masks. But enough of this. I know, sweet one, that you 
but jest. See, how the moon arrayed in all her fairest 
robes, reminds us of those blissful nights, when, as 
the fair Selene, she would seek the Latinian Mount 
to kiss Endymion in his sleep. 



CHANCES AND CHANGBS. 



Isabel. And by so doing-, invites us to the theme 
of love, Is't not so ? 

Arthur. Gentle angel, what else should it be ? 
Was not the night, with all its poetry, intended as 
the time when soul may meet with soul in sweet 
response, and all things syllable the name of love ? 
Indeed is not the night that gentle season of our lives, 
when all things being enwrapt within a temporary 
calm, we rise above the grovelling thoughts of earth 
into a higher sphere of thought and sentiment ! 

Isabel. Ah 1 me. 

Arthur. Instead of smiles, do you but give me 
sighs ? Tell me, Isabel, wherefore is this so ? 

Isabel. Our fears are realized. This it is which 
makes me sad. 

Arthur. That we must part ? Is this your father's 
will ? 

Isabel. 'Tis even so. Your poverty is your crime j 
this is enough for him. 

Arthur. Think you he is firm in his resolve ? 

Isabel. As firm as ever was the Medes and Per- 
sians' law, which once being made, could know no 
change. 

Arthur. Can you not move him even by the sweet 
pleading of your filial love ? 

Isabel. Not even this avails me aught against his 
resolution. No, not even did I have a thousand 
tongues, and every tongue possess a daughter's 
sweetest eloquence, would this suffice to change his 
views. 

Arthur. This being the case, then am I settled in 
my course of action. This night we part ; this night 
shall witness my departure for another field less cir- 
cumscribed. This done. Excelsior shall be my motto ; 
nor will I cease till I have won the laurels of success, 
and thus made you mine. Say, say, sweet one ; a 
few years hence should I return, will I still find you 
true ? 

Isabel. Have I so far withstood my father's anger 
for your love, and yet you trust me not ? No, Arthur ; 
be you where you may, I will be always as the laith- 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 7 

ful sun-flower, turning to the sun. Sooner shall yon 
lamp of heaven forget to shine, than I forget my 
promise. 

Arthur. The gay, the gaudy glare of fashion's 
shrine, and the excitement of a city life ; all this may 
wean you from your present thoughts. 

Isabel. Fear not, sweet love, on this account. For 
me, what is the din and bustle of a city life ; that hol- 
low, artificial thing in which the seeming is more 
valued than the real, and where the daily routine is a 
puppet show, made up of fashion's fools, whose only 
office is to flutter, shine, and show themselves 1 
Think you, that all this pomp of costly fashion, pride, 
and nothingness, can ever wipe your image from my 
heart? No, no ; the clouds may hide, but they can 
ne'er put out the sun. 

Arthur. Isabel, this is more than I can bear. Say, 
say, sweet angel of my life, shall we submit, or shall 
we bid defiance to these bolts and bars with which 
an unrelenting father would imprison love ? 

Isabel Not so ; lest in so doing, we may repent at 
leisure what we do in haste — ( Village clock strikes). — 
But hark ! The night is far advanced : I must away. 

Arthur. So soon, and is there no appeal ? 

Isabel. The time will come when we shall meet 
again. Meanwhile, let our loves lie buried in our 
silent breasts ; to sleep, but not to die. 

Arthur. To sleep, and in that sleep to dream, per- 
chance those dreams which ne'er will bel Ahl there's 
the point by which anticipation makes me feel that I am 
poor indeed. (A momentary pause.) But no, it must 
not be : it is unmanly thus to add a double sting to 
this already trying hour. But one kiss more, my love, 
and then farewell. If it be so that I must dream and 
dream, and only dream, I will so idolize you in my 
thoughts that you shall be as fair Callisto glorified 
into a bright and shining star ; so much your beauty 
shall tranacend the things of earth. 

Isabel. Farewell, my love, farewell. Remember, if we 
meet no more, true love being immortal, lives beyond 



O CHANCES AND CHAiVGES. 

the grave. My heart is full ; I can no more ; fure- 
well. [Exit. 

Arthur. Alas 1 for that sad word farewell — that 
melancholy note of our souls in which the music of de- 
parting' love becomes the funeral dirge of our hopes. 
Oh ! fortune, fortune, wherefore is it thus, that the 
career of love should be beset with thorns, and not 
with roses ? • [Exit. 

Scene II. — Moetimer's apartments — Mortimer seated 
at table writing — Looks at Ms watch. 

Morlimer. — Already eight, and they not here? (A 
ring at the bell.) Ah ! that sounds like Gaspard's 
ring. I'd know his touch among a thousand ; it is so 
strongly characteristic of the man. 

Enter Gaspard, Beaumont, and other gamblers. 

Mortimer. Thrice welcome, gentlemen. But how 
comes it you are so late ? 

Gaspard. Why, how goes the enemy ? 

Morlimer. Past eight, and our engagement was for 
seven. 

Gaspard. Well, well, we must apologize. And yet, 
did you but know the facts, you would not cen- 
sure us. 

Beaumont. In brief, a moment lend your ear, and 
we will give you welcome news. 

Mortimer. So be it, then. Come, come, be seated, 
gentlemen, that I may be as wise as you are on this 
subject. [They take seats.] Come Gaspard, your's be 
the spoke unan's office upon this occasion. 

Gaspard. A rat, a rat, fat, sleek and ready for the 
bait. Do you perceive the hint ? 

Mortimer. 'Tis well. But are you sure of this? 

Beaumont. No doubt of it. We have taken his 
measure, and find him just the thing. 

Morlimer. But yet another point. Is he a gentle- 
man, or some low-priced dog whose presence may prove 
injurious to our interests? For, mark you, although 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 9 

we are known to ourselves as knaves, we must most 
carefiillj guard the respectability of appearances. It 
is by what we seem that we deceive the world, and 
thus succeed. 

Gaspard. Upon this point do you give yourself no 
thought ; for even as the prudent mariner studies 
V7ell his chart, avoiding here a quicksand, there a reef ; 
so likewise does the sagacious mind protect itself by 
its discriminating powers. Indeed, this well-directed 
caution is among the most precious gifts that we de- 
rive from our knowledge of the world. Fear not, 
therefore, Mortimer, I have too long studied human 
nature with its countless foibles, whims and strange 
peculiarities to be deceived in this. 

Mortivier. Pardon me, Gaspard. For the moment I 
had forgotten the proverbial saying, that old birds are 
not to be caught with chaif. And now we'll drink 
success to our new-born enterprise. When Fortune 
smiles, 'tis well that Bacchus be propitiated. 

Gaspard. A happy thought, and carried unani- 
mously. Is it not so, good friends ? 

[They bow in acquiescence, and then drink. 

Beaumont. If not for drinking, what a miserable 
existence this would be? 

Mortimer. Bread at pleasure, drink by measure ; 
this is the philosophy of life. 

Beaumont. Not so, not so. One sip of wine will 
bathe the drooping spirits in delight, revive the old, 
inspire the young, and make the weary man forget his 
toil. Yet once more, therefore, ere we go, let us fill 
up the flowing bowl, and call on Bacchus, jolly god of 
laughing pleasures. 

Mortimer. Come, gentlemen, we'll act on Beau- 
mont's hint. It is the part of wisdom to be merry 
while we may. 

[They drink again. As soon as they have finished 
drinking, a noise is heard without. 

Mortimer. Hear how tlie shallow mob bestow their 
plaudits on some demagogue. 



10 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 

Beaumont. Poor, simple creatures, puffed, indeed, 
with the importance of their freedom, yet far too often 
selling out their birthright for a mess of pottage. 
Let us be going. 

Gaspard. Remarking as we go, that in the prose- 
cution of our plans we may derive some useful hints 
from the far-sighted cunning of these subtil poli- 
ticians. 

Mortimer. Conceal it as we will, 'tis through the 
tricks and snares of well devised deception that we 
most surely meet success. [^Exeunt. 



Scene III. — ^ Street by Mght. 

Enter '^ixi.covi-s. followed by Franklin. 

Franklin. In the name of friendship I beseech you 
to reflect ere yet the season for reflection be o'erpast. 
Do but reason with yourself, and see the dangers 
which encompass you ; the ruin and disgrace which 
must inevitably follow such a course as tliis. 

Malcour. You are a noble fellow, Franklin, and 
your words are such as well become a friend. But as 
for me, I have already crossed the rubicon, and cannot 
at this crisis pause. Besides, there is a fascination in 
this game of chances which it is impossible for me to 
resist. 

Franklin, If a man is only earnest in his resolu- 
tions nothing is impossible. Remember we are men, 
not merely instruments which every breath may play 
upon ; nor are we slaves, except so far as we have 
put the eyes of conscience out, that she can no longer 
see to do her heaven inspired duty. To this you 
surely have not fallen yet? 

Malcour (aside). How deeply his earnestness af- 
fects me ! A few years since I had not needed this 
persuasion. 

Franklin. Yon pause, you hesitate. May I not 
hope that you will yield to my request ? 

Malcour. Verily your words are true, and I confess 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 11 

that you have moved me by this evidence of yoni- 
friendship. But then, but then—. Ah 1 there's the 
point that makes me feel I am a shive. 

Franklin. And for this vile intoxication which can 
only end in ruin, you are content to barter all those 
hopes and joys which cluster round a happy home, 
and which indeed make up the charm of life ! Fie, 
fie, oh fie. It cannot be that reason so far prostitutes 
herself as to submit to this. Why e'en a dog will 
pause when by its instinct it perceives the approach 
of danger ; and shall it be less than this with man — 
that wondrous compound where all nature seems to 
do her best? No, no, I'll not believe it so. Yet 
should it be, then is our boasted reason but a sham, 
and man the weakest, vilest thing on earth. 

Malcour. Give me your hand, good friend, and 
with it let me give you my assurance that I'll think 
upon your words. 

Franklin. Then why not on the dictates of your 
better nature act at once ? To hesitate is sometimes 
to be lost, whereas in prompt decision we avoid at 
least that thief of time, procrastination. 

Malcour. It is not in our power either to make or 
unmake ourselves in an instant. Besides, good 
Franklin, j'ou forget the world has changed since you 
were young. Things which then seemed amiss receive 
the sanction now of custom and expediency, while 
even gray beards like yourself will stroke themselves, 
and saj"- tis well. The world moves on, and as we 
move, our views of right and wrong demand a change. 

Franklin. So it has always been, and so it doubt- 
less will for ever be. The devil never lacks for in- 
genuity. The world has changed indeed since I was 
young 1 But what of this, since changing, it can 
never change those fundamental laws which give to 
virtue its reward, to vice its punishment ? To wit, 
then, where is the advantage though it be respectable 
to sin, and though you even seem to sin successfully ? 
Depend upon it, there must come a time when our evil 
deeds, like chickens, will come home to roost. But 
here are strangers this way coming. Let us move on. 



12 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 

Malcour. Not so. They are three friends of miue. 

Franklin. Friends of yours ! Bless me, Malcour, 
there is something in that hungry looking fellow's 
appearance that causes me spontaneously to put my 
hands in my pockets. Look to it, if he is not a villain 
of the deepest dye, then has nature suddenly turned a 
fool and given him the outward signs of villainy to no 
interest. But no more. Our thoughts unsaid are^ur 
own. 

Enter Gaspard, Beaumont, and another Gambler. 

Gaapard. Come, come, Malcour, this is a sorry way 
to keep your promises. Already have we waited for 
you nearly half an hour. 

Malcour. Pardon me, good sirs, for my apparent 
negligence. While on my way I met this friend, an 
old and valued friend. In his company the time has 
passed without my knowledge. 

Gambler (aside to Beaumont). His presence bodes 
no good to our plans. He is too old a bird by far. 
Offend him, and thus throw him off his equipoise. In 
this alone is our opportunity. 

Beaumont (sarcastically). At last then do I gaze 
upon the greatest of all prodigies — an old and valued 
friend ! 

Malcour. Why, Beaumont, how is this ? Is it a 
thing so rare to have a friend, that you regard it 
almost as a miracle ? 

Beaumont. Upon my soul, it is to me a wondrous 
prodigy ; a sight, indeed, which gives me more sur- 
prise than I would feel if sudden discord took the place 
of law and order in the universe. What 1 shall I be- 
hold a relic of that race which lived ere Astroea left the 
earth, and not say. Behold a miracle ? Oh 1 no ; im- 
possible. For my part, I have always found that it 
required all the eyes of Argus to protect ourselves 
from our friends. With you, experience having taught 
you otherwise, you are the most fortunate man on 
earth. 

Franklin. No more of this ; I'll hear no more ; nor 
will I be the jest of these impertinent meddlers, who, 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 13 

measuring' others by tliemselves, distort the world, and 
make the noblest actions seem a lie. 

Gaspard. How I do despise these g^arrulous old 
men ; so windy, and so wondrous wise in their own 
conceits I Indeed, they are like narrow necked bottles: 
the less they have in them the more noise they make in 
pouring it out. 

Franklin. Imperious knave, know you of whom you 
speak ? 

Malcour. Come, gentlemen, this must not be. By 
the sweet name of friend I would address you all ; en- 
treating you to dismiss this unbecoming attitude. 

Gaspard. Malcour, do you accompany us? It wfis 
for this, and not for any idle war of words, we came. 
Remember, time and tide for no man wait. 

Malcour. It is an engagement, and shall be kept. 
Franklin, do you excuse me ? \_Going. 

Franklin. Rash, foolish, self-destroying man ; so 
soon have you outgrown your better mood, and like a 
poor deluded fool, pluniije headlong to destruction I 
Turn but an instant inwardlj' your eyes, and see how- 
conscience weeps because you heed her not. Ay, more 
than this ; remember that there is a time in our lives 
when our destinies hang as 'twere upon the issue of a 
iuoment. We clioose, and in the choice decide the 
I'uture as a heaven or a hell. 

Gaspard. {To Franklin.) See here, good Sir, Mal- 
cour is a man ; and, being such, hath long ere this 
attained tlie power of discretion. Here let us rest our 
arguments, and to his inclination leave the issue. 

Malcour. Then, with my inclination let it be. Life 
is at best a lottery. A lottery, therefore, it shall be. 
In our wisest moods we are but straws, being borne 
we know not where. To chance we leave the rest. 
Exeunt Malcour, Gaspard, Beaumont and Gambler: as they 

are in the act of leaving, Mortimer enters unperceived by the 

others and plucks the Gambler's sleeve; at which he returns, 

and Mortimer and he whisper together. 

Franklin. Farewell, thou poor, deluded wretch. 
Ere you have seen the end you will a thousand times 
regret your choice. [Exit. 



14 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 

Mortimer a^id Gambler coming forward. 

Morlimer. Malcour, did you say ? Tell me again, 
that I be sure my senses do not play the cheat. 

Gambler. Such is tlie name. But, how strangely it 
affects you. Do you know him ? 

31ortimer. It is a name which fills me with strange 
thoughts. But I will not go back into the buried past. 
The future is tlie question. Yes, the future is the 
question. And yet 'tis strange ; 'tis strange how 
fickle are the tides of life. Indeed, so trul^'- are we 
baffled by the contradictions of this ever-changing 
world, that no man can safely say to-morrow will be 
• his or that ; no, not e'en to the minutest trifles of his 
life. We plan, contrive, abandon, and revise ; while 
in an instant comes a change, and we are startled by 
some unexpected circumstance, more powerful than 
all preceding calculations, dreams, and stratagems. 
Come, come, good friend, let us away at once. Success 
is but the use we make of our opportunities ; and he is 
wisest who most wisely sees that this is so. 

Gambler. To action, therefore, else the wind may 
change. {^Exeunt. 



ACT II. 

Scene I. — A Parlor. 

Enter Beatrice arid Isabel. 

Isabel. Come, come, sweet mother, let me persuade 
you to dismiss this mood. 'Tis but a whim ; one of 
those idle fancies which perplex the mind without a 
cause. Away, then, with it ; while the better to assist 
you to this end, I summon to my aid sweet music's 
sooihing influence. Perchance 'twill prove more elo- 
quent than my poor words. 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 15 

( Commences playing.) 

Beatrice. No more of music, Isabel ; let me hear no 
more of music. There is a sense of sadness stealing 
over me ; a shadow, as it were, of some approaching 
ill, which renders me unfit for music's gentle har- 
monies. 

Isabel. No, no, sweet mother, there is no heart that 
music cannot soothe ; no mood, no passion in the 
human soul but finds its food in music. See, I will 
adapt my strain to suit your mood. 

( Commences playing a sentimental air.) 

Beatrice. Not so, my child, not so. In ray anticipa- 
tion I have so far lost the sense of tune that e'en the 
sweetest music is but discord to my ear. 

Isabel. A curse on this anticipation, which inflicts 
more ills than e'er were dreamed of by reality. It is 
the scourge of our nature that we tremble in our 
thoughts before those ills which never come ; and in 
anticipation mourn the loss of that we never lose. 

Beatrice. So says the wisdom of the world ; and it 
is doubtless true to some extent. But woman was 
made for love, not for philosophy ; and where we love, 
we cannot but anticipate. Indeed, such is the consti- 
tution of a woman's soul, that where she loves she 
lives but in that love. It is her world, her heaven ; 
yea, her all in all. Take it away, and life is but a 
blank, a dreary nothingness ; no more. 

Isabel. And you in loving, and being in turn be- 
loved, possess the measure of a woman's happiness. 
Besides, if we may call the future an effect of which 
the present is the cause, e'en here you are the happi- 
est of tlje happy. See, are you not among the favored 
few who bask in fortune's sunshine, your wishes and 
your means being equal ? It is the poor who, as they 
drag their weary way along, stop every now and then 
to sigh. It is their place to sigh. But yours should 
be a sweet pei-ennial smile, unclouded by the common 
cares of life. 

Beatrice. Nonsense 1 nonsense ! Prythee, Isabel, 
think you that wealtli excludes us from the vicissi- 



16 CHANCES AND CHANaES. 

tudes of life — those many heart-burns, aches, and pains 
which meet humanity at every step ? If so, at once 
do you dispel the illusion from your mind. True hap- 
piness is not the growth of wealth, or pomp, or mere 
renown. It is a state dependent on the world within. 
But see, here comes Eudora. I would speak with her 
alone. 

Isabel. If you prefer my room to my company, be it 
so. Where there are secrets I would have no part. 
But mark you, mother, I would caution you against 
my most insidious aunt. She is a woman of the 
world, and as such is dangerous. \_Exit. 

Enter Eudora. 

Beatrice. How now, good sister, what of news ? 
With me the time hangs heavily, yielding little else 
than dark anticipation. 

Eudora. Between us then the difference is but this 
— with you it is anticipation, with me reality. 

Beatrice. Whatever it may be, be equal to your 
word. But tell me, wherefore do you look at me so 
earnestly ? 

Eudora. That I may pity you, and learn to hate 
my brother. 

Beatrice. That you may pity me, and learn to hate 
my husband ? It seems to me I do but dream. 

Eudora. Nay, rather say that hitherto you have 
been living in a dream, that 3'^ou have been the victim 
of a fond delusion soon to end. The dream will soon 
be over ; the reality has yet to come. 

Beatrice. Speak on, Eudora, I beseech you. Let 
me know the worst at once. If it be so that night 
approaches, let me know in time, that when it comes 
I may have weaned myself from earth, and in my 
resignation rob advei'sity of one half its sting. 

Eudora. Your husband is a knave ; a base fre- 
quenter of those gambling hells in which the devil 
acts as master of the ceremonies, and where fools lose 
first their money, then their characters. 

Beatrice. Great heavens I No, I cannot credit this. 
It cannot be ; it is not so. Perchance it may be one 



CHANCES AND CHANGE?. 17 

amon^ the many falselioods of this busy talking 
world, whose pleasure is to murder every honest 
name. It is the voice of slander which would murder 
thus my hopes. 

Eudora. Beatrice, you are to me a mystery. For 
my part, I cannot understand this sightless love which 
renders you the easy dupe of one who is beyond a 
doubt, a most consummate hypocrite. 

Beatrice. Give me some proof. Till then I will be- 
lieve you not. 

Eudora. If that be all, you shall be amply satisfied. 
It is so hard to wean you silly creatures from your 
idols made of clay. This way, and you shall have 
enough of proof. [^Exeunt. 



Scene II. — A Gambling Saloon, lighted up. Several 
persons in the rear engaged in playing. 

Malcour and Gaspard coming forward. 

Malcour. Persuade me not. I am no more myself, 
but like some wandering wretcli who meets the tempest 
of the wintry blast, atn blowii about I know not 
where. Thus I destroy these execrable instruments 
of fortune — thus. (Destroys some cards ivhich he holds 
in his hand). For me they have no further charm. 

Gaspard. Come, come, this mood but ill becomes 
a man. 

Malcour. A man, indeed ! Can I be a man and be 
tlie slave of this infatuation which has ended in ray 
ruin ? No, no. To be a man is to control the baser 
parts of our nature. Wliere has been my power in 
this ? 

Gaspard. It is but a game of chance. In the next 
hand you may prove more fortunate. 

Malcour. Chance ! What is chance to me 1 'Tis 
but a lie, a snare and a delusion fit for dotards and for 
fools — a fascinating syren which allures us on and on 
to leave us in the vortex of despair. 

Gaspard. But does it follow that because you lose 
your money you should also lose your wits ? You are 



18 'CHANCES AND CHANGES, 

not the first, nor will you be the last to meet with 
disappointment. 

Malcour. Call it not disappointment, Gaspard, but 
remorse, that deepest of all pangs when conscience 
turns upon itself, and our evil actions from their 
secret corners creep, like skeletons, whose only pleas- 
ure is to torture us. Far better than to come to this 
that I had ne'er been born ; else living, had instead 
been as the starving wretch who sinks within the arms 
of lean and tattered want. Yes, yes, a thousand times 
better this ; for there the scourge defeats itself when it 
has done its most, and in its conquest makes its cap- 
tive free, while here 'tis as a worm that gnaws and 
eats me inch by inch, prolonging life to suit alone its 
cruel sport. 

Gaspard. Ay, ay, rail on, nor will I chide you for 
your empty vaporing. When you are cool, and judg- 
ment has assumed her seat, you will regret this wordy 
stuflf which in the end means much of nothing. 

Malcour. No, never. Turn where I will, I am pur- 
sued by dreams of dreadful shape, forebodings which 
are as the darkest furies to my soul. In vain I strive 
and seek for consolation in a maze of sophistries. 'Tis 
all in vain. My hopes are shattered, and the future, 
like an awful chasm, opens up before me, I am un- 
done, and you have been my ruin. 

Gaspard. And from the furnace kept myself unhurt! 
At least so seem your words. See, here is my purse. 
[Ofers Mm his pwse.] If you will still regard me ag 
your enemy, let this suffice to prove I am your friend. 

Malcour. Not so, not so. Pry'thee forgive me, Gas- 
pard. If I have wronged you, let my distraction be 
as my excuse. But for your money, keep it, friend. I 
never can rebuild myself again, 

Gaspard. But should a desperate hope present 
itself? 

Malcour. A hope ! There is no hope that can sup- 
port me in this vortex of despair. 

Gaspard. A hope there is if you will only act. 
Yea, still a chance by which you may regain your 
loss. 



CIIANCKS AND CHANGES. 



19 



Malcour. Do you but name it ; and I will seize 
upon it with the desperation of a dying man. 

Gaspard. You wife has jewels. Now what are 
jewels to a husband's happiness? 

Malcour. Am I so base that I have come to this ? 
No, Gasi^ard, no ; I may be vile, but cannot stoop to 
this. 

Gaspai'd. Your weakness makes the evil greater 
than it is. The end will justify the means. Let this 
become your warrant. Meantime let us move on, and 
talk the matter over as we go. 

Malcour. From small beginnings we are driven to 
most desperate ends. [^Exeunt. 

[Mortimer and a few other gamblers coming forward, 

Mortimer. So far, so good. The charm succeeds, 
and with the stride of an inexorable fate he moves on 
to his doom. So, so, 'tis well. The incubation of one 
little sin will soon pervade the whole of nature. 

Gambler. In his credulity the fool believes the world 
is made of honest men ; whereas 'tis made up of such 
stuff that men will buy and sell each other for a pit- 
tance. 

Mortimer. Here is his weakness ; this the point we 
play upon. But of this enough. Meanwhile 'tis our 
province to pursue our plans, and with the eyes of 
Argus watch the progress of events. {^Exeunt. 



Scene III. — A room — Beatrice and Eudora rising 
from a table. 

Eudora. Art yet convinced, or do you still demand 
more proof? 

Beatrice. Too true, alas I too true. 

Eudora. And being true, will you submit to it ? 

Beatrice. Though guilty, is he not my husband 
still? Ah ! yes, though even I should lose the world, 
I cannot blot his image from my heart. 

Eudora. Tut, tut, these are but idle words. Look 
you, Beatrice, have you so long journeyed through the 
world, and not discovered that the curse of woman is 



20 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 

her weak credulity ? In short, have you so far at- 
tained the years of womanhood, and not seen that this 
is a world of facts and stern realities — a world, in- 
deed, in which this dreamy state of love and poetry is 
but a sham, deceiving most where most it promises ? 

Beatrice. Not so, not so ; for still my thoughts, in 
spite of all my shattered hopes, will run back to my 
days of early love — those charming dreams where 
every moment was an age of bliss ; a sweet transport- 
ing joy, too pure, too fair to die. 

Eudora. Pshaw, you disgust me with this puerile 
sensibility. Action, not submission, is the becoming 
course for every injured woman. Besides, we have 
outgrown that age when woman by an act of marriage 
made herself a slave for whom there could be no re- 
lease. In our day, we change our husbands as we do 
our garments : they suit no longer, and that is 
enough. And let me ask you is it not enough ? To 
wit, as in the present case, when marriage has become 
a mere mockery, a sham ; where is the woman who 
would not rather free herself than bear in silence all 
the stings and torments of an ignominious bondage ? 

Beatrice. Speak not so thoughtlessly, Eudora. 
Yours is but a shallow estimate, dealing with the sur- 
face only ; while the profounder depths of human na- 
ture are beyond its reach : too subtile for that vulgar 
sense which breeds these modern innovations, these 
pernicious tendencies. 

Eudora. Nay, start not at my words. I am your 
elder both in years and experience, therefore more 
familiar with the shifting currents of this ever-chang- 
ing life. With me, I measure all things by the test 
of reason and expediency ; with you, 'tis all weak, 
puerile, mawkish sensibility. And now, my errand 
having filled, adieu. When next we meet, you will be 
in a better mood to heed my teaching. [Exit. 

Beatrice. Adieu. Our sentiments being at war, we 
are better friends at a distance. [Enter Fkanklin, un- 
perceived by Beatrice.] Alone I will endure my grief ; 
nor shall the outside world perceive that there is aught 
but sunshine in my soul. What though he wrong me, 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. • 21 

is it not a woman's nature to conceal the faults of those 
she loves? Yea, even thoug'h in the deep silence of 
her g'rief, she heap the weight of Ossa and Pelion on* 
her heart, yet will she not refuse the burden. To rant, 
and rave, and hold up our wrongs before the public 
gaze, may suit the common herd who seek a vulgar 
notoriety. For me, however, come what may, unto 
myself, my womanhood, I will be true. 

Franklin {coming forward). Still there is one in 
whom you may confide, and run no risk in trusting to 
his friendship. 

Beatrice. Methought I was alone, else had I not ex- 
pressed myself so freely. Yet, most venerable Frank- 
lin, I but too well know without a reason you had not 
thus intruded on my privacy. 

FranUin. As you surmise, there is a caiise, of 
which the subject matter touches on your welfare and 
your happiness. To speak more plainly, it is but a 
short time since I parted with your husband — a poor, 
weak man, who, walking in his sleep, comes suddenly 
on the verge of a great precipice. 

Beatrice. Alas ! then were Eudora's words correct, 
and I am lost, undone, 

Franklin. Nay, nay, not so. It is not yet so dark 
that we can trace no gleam of light. Ere yet the sin 
be full grown, we may kill it by some neutralizing 
influence. 

Beatrice. Now I perceive it all. I am awake, and 
see things as they are. For months the incubation has 
been going on, wliile I deceived myself, because my 
love being pure did naught suspect. Ah I even when 
in my maturer moods I would remonstrate with him 
on that change, the cause of which I then so little un- 
derstood, 'twas but a little effort that it cost to put me 
off. 'Twas this, 'twas that ; whate'er the reason given, 
it sufficed. I loved him, trusted, and believed. Now 
I've outlived my dream ; and I must bid a long 
farewell to all my happiness. 

Franklin. Not so. All other remedies having 
failed, there yet is one which may reclaim him, even 
thougli he should have reached that state when con- 



22 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 

science like a sluggard sleeps, and habit almost has 
become a second nature. In your persuasion is your 
strength. 

Beatrice. If this be all, then is there left but little 
hope. Good sir, what can a woman do when wisdom 
such as yours has failed ? 

Franklin. Nevertheless, do you proceed as I ad- 
vise ; nor do you doubt that there is more of eloquence 
in the sweet pleading of a woman's tears than all the 
arguments which all the wisest men possess. Indeed, 
it is among the special graces of your sex that woman 
may at times become as gentle spring, light floating 
in a cloud of flowers ; while by the sweet mysterious 
influence of her being, she weaves the life of heaven 
into the soul of man, illumes his mind, and purifies his 
heart. These being your weapons, will you hesitate ? 

Beatrice. Most noble and most generous friend ; al- 
most your eloquence fills me with new hopes. 

Franklin. To this end, therefore, do you direct your 
efforts. If then you fail, you will at least have done 
your duty. 

Beatrice. Then come, sweet duty, doubly sweetened 
by my love. If he has still a spark of nature left, 
then shall my prayers be as the gently falling dew, 
soft penetrating into the finer elements of his soul. 
If in his obduracy he will hear me not, then is the 
failure none of mine. For my part, I will plead with 
all my tenderness ; yea, with the deepest pathos of a 
woman's being. Exceeding this I can no moi'e. 

Franklin. This done ; well done. At best 'tis but 
our province to deserve success. To grant it is the 
prerogative of heaven. \_Exeunt. 



CnANCES AND CHANGES. 23 

ACT III. 

Scene I. — An Open Space by JYight. 

Enter Arthue, Edgar, and Hubert. 

Arthur. This was the houi-, this the very spot. 

Edgar. Nonsense, man, you but imagine it. 'Twas 
but an idle phantasy, the product of a diseased 
imagination ; nothing more. 

Arthur. Nay, on my soul it were as easy to con- 
vince me that this firm and solid earth is but a mj'th ; 
ourselves imagination ; and the resplendent beauty of 
yon golden fretted vault, the frenzy of a wild, disor- 
dered brain. Strange it may seem, but in so seeming 
it is true withal. 

Hubert. What seemed it like ? Was it in human 
form, or like those strange monstrosities which some- 
times flit before the sick man's mind; making his sleep 
a hideous nightmare ? 

Edgar. Or better still, the reflex action of our 
friend's own mind — the legitimate offspi'ing of an over- 
loaded stomach. 

Hubert. Or else too free indulgence of another 
kind. Come, Arthur, is it not so, that having drank 
too freely you mistook your shadow for a ghost ? 
Come, come, admit the fact, and say that you wero 
drunk. 

Arthur. Good friends, if I afford you cause for mirth 
you are most welcome to your sport. Be this, how- 
ever, as it may, what I have said, I reaffirm ; nor do I 
deviate one iota from the truth. (Starting sudd-enly). 
Yet sec, it comes again. Speak Edgar, Hubert speak. 
Can you not see that this is no inhabitant of earth ? 
Yea, e'en as though the fairest beauties of all worlds 
were concentrated in one glance; an index to a soul 
such as I have never seen before. 



24 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 

Edgar. To me 'tis vacancy ; I see nothing. 

Hubert. Nor T. Upon my honor as a man, I do be- 
lieve our friend has lost his wits, 

Edgar. If he was drunk last night, he is most 
surely sober now. 

Arthur. Still, still it comes, and yet you see it not ? 
Can it be that I but dream ? No, no, it is no dream ; 
for see, it comes still nearer, and becomes more visible. 
(Spirit gradually appears). Speak, speak, thou glori- 
ous apparition, speak; or else I die in my suspense. 
(Spirit appears more fully and beckons to Arthur). See, 
see, it beckons me. What say you, gentlemen, shall I 
obey ? 

Spirit. Fear not, Arthur. I am here not as an idle 
ghost who hovers near the earth because unfit for any 
higher sphere. 'Twixt me and thee there is a bond 
more closely interwoven than you dream of If you 
would hear me more, obey and follow me. (Glides off 
the stage, beckoning Arthur to follow). 

Arthur. Follow thee, thou bright, angelic being I 
Yea verily, I will. Whatever thou art, I'll know thee 
more. [Exit. 

Hubert. What say you, Edgar ? How runs your 
blood ? 

Edgar. Almost as cold as ice ; so much this some- 
thing, nothing, whatever it may be, has freezed the 
circulation in my veins. Let us away, and leave this 
place. It savors too much of the gi'ave for me. 

Hubert. With all my heart, and so say I. Where 
nature is so weird and strange, the devil must be near 
at hand. [Exeunt. 

SceNE II.— The Sea-shore. JVight. 
Enter Arthur, 

Arthur. Can it be so, that after all, my senses play 
the cheat, while I am left to speak but with the vacant 
air, and listen to the music of the rolling waves ? 
No, no, it cannot be that e'er a dream so fair should 
be so false. (Sudden appearance of a superjiatural 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 25 

light). Bat soft, it comes again. Sec, see, already it 
is here. 

Spirit appears. 

Spirit. Arthur, from my presence do you fear no 
liarm. I was your mother in the flesh — ■! am your 
mother still ; for though in death we shuffle off the 
mortal coil, we still take that into the other world 
which makes up our characters. Indeed, the state 
which men call death is but a change through which 
we pass on to a higher life. 'Tis true we fall asleep, 
and seem to die, but 'tis a seeming, and no more. So 
far do you perceive the meaning of my words ? 

Arthur. Speak on, celestial being, speak on. 

Spirit. A moment then do you attend, while by the 
opening of your inner sight you shall perceive a cer- 
tain thing which yet lies buried in the future. For 
tills have I appeared, lest in the common routine of 
events, the time may move too slowly for your happi- 
ness. So far do you perceive the meaning of my 
words ? 

Arthur. Speak on, celestial being, speak on. 

Spirit. Be therefore wise, and act upon the mean- 
ing of this vision. 

( Tableau showing Malcour in the act of killing Isabel. 
Spirit gradually disappears). 

Arthur. A dream 1 A dream ! Is it of heaven or 
of hell ? That is the question. My brain is dizzy. I 
am not myself. [Exit. 

Scene III. — Gaspard's Apartments. 
Enter Gaspabd and Beaumont. 

Gaspard. Believe me, Beaumont, it is always so. 
Indeed, if not for this, where is the profit we derive 
froni that which we call wisdom ? Tell me, did ever 
you compare a wise man with a'fool, examining well 
their points of difference ? 
2 



26 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 

Beaumont. To me it has always been enough that 
I perceived the wise are few and far between ; whereas 
the race of fools is quite as thick as flies in summer, 

Gaspard. So far, so good, but yet not far enough ; 
for in addition to this fact, have you ne'er marked the 
difference which exists between the chattering ape 
and he who measures so his actions, thoughts, and 
words, that there is nothing empty, nothing shallow, 
nothing void of some direct specific purpose ? If you 
have not, then do you learn it is a law which nature 
makes, that since there must be fools, 'tis well they 
should subserve their only use — to be the prey of 
those who are their betters. 

Beaumont. Yet the weakness of accident is some- 
times strong where the force of design is weak. But 
here is Mortimer. We shall have some news of his 
successes in his new departure. 

Enter Mortimer. 

Gaspard. How now, Mortimer, how runs the 
world ? Or better still, how deals the skillful Cupid 
with your suit ? 

Ilortimer. So far the tide of fortune moves in my 
behalf. Indeed, 'twould seem that the desired end 
draws near when I shall reap the fruit of my designs. 

Gaspard. Are you so well assured ? You know 
the saying, " there's many a slip between the cup and 
the lip." 

Mortimer. Nonsense, Gaspard. 'Tis but your sport 
to banter me, the better to increase my appetite. 

Beaumont. What if that womanly weakness which 
you count upon, should prove superior even to tlie 
pressure of adversity? Ere this the time has been 
when virtue has withstood the pressure of temptation. 
What has been ouce may be again. 

Mortimer. Nonsense, gentlemen. This is not the 
case. My word to it, that woman after all ia but an 
embodiment of frailty, made for weaknesses and little 
sins — a superficial creature blown about by every gust 
of fashion and caprice. Besides, in my experience I 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 27 

liave never known a woman who could not, like a 
trout, be caught by tickling. 

GasjMrd. Admitting this, if even you obtain the 
prize, what do you gain in gaining it ? 

Mortimer. Gain 1 Gain everything. Gain that 
which filled my early dreams, and which, till Malcour 
crossed my path, seemed destined to be mine. 

Gaspard. For my part, I would rather sit up day 
and night to catch a flea, than be as you, the victim of 
a fascination which exacts so much to give so little. 

Mortimer. No, by my soul this is not so ; nor can 
my thoughts be measured by your cold, dispassionate 
mind. To you it is as though my fancy teemed with 
nothingness. To me it is a warm and fervent glow, 
as when the earth, awaking from a long and dreary 
winter sleep, puts on her floral robes, the birds renew 
their song, and all things echo with a thousand 
tongues the glorious theme that spring has come 
again. 

Beaumont. Your passion gives you eloquence, if 
even it deprives you of your common sense. 

Mortimer. The keen delight, the mingling of two 
souls lost in one fond, one long embrace, the thousand 
joys that come within the sweet delicious hour of fru- 
ition. To me these things are real. Yea, insomuch 
that I will make no pause till I have plucked the rose, 
possessed its beauty, and enjoyed its perfume. My 
word to it, she shall be mine. [Exit. 

Gaspard. So runs the world, and so suppose 'twill 
always be. Once let a man believe himself in love, 
and he most sui'ely plays the fool. 

Beaumont. 'Tis for this reason Cupid's painted 
blind, lest seeing, we should see ourselves as others 
see us, and thus cease to play these antics in the 
name of love. 

Gaqjard. It comes to this ; that after all, there 
a good deal of the monkey in the best of us. — \_Exeunt, 



28 ' CHANCES AND CHANGES. 

Scene IY. — A Room in Malcour^s House. Malcour 
examining a casket of jewels. 

Malcour. Say, say, my better genius, shall it be 
done, or shall I spurn the deed, preferring rather to 
be lost at once than stoop to meanness that I may 
perchance be saved ? To sin against so sweet a saint 
makes sin indeed a horrid monster, blighting all the 
fairest charms of earth, while hell resounds with its 
applause. Oh 1 earth, oh ! heaven, wherefore is this 
so ? No, no, I can not do it. My soul repels the 
thought. — (Pauses thoughtfully.) And yet there is a 
force in Gaspard's words which it is hard to set aside. 
Call it caprice of fortune, fate, destiny, or any other 
name we please, 'tis all the same. We are that which 
we are, because we can not help ourselves ; and being 
the slaves of circumstance, are driven this way, that 
way, as conditions change, and chance may favor vice 
or virtue for the moment. It shall be done. The end 
must justify the means. (Takes jewels from casket, 
and conceals them in his pockets.) 'Tis after all, the 
desperation of a dying man. If I survive, 'tis well. 
If otherwise, 'tis but the end of that which I already 
feel. — (Preparing as if to go.) 

Enter Beatrice. 

Beatrice. Malcour, I am here that I may speak with 
you, plead with you. Will you not hear me ? 

Malcour. To yield to this I am compelled. Yet 
would I charge you to be brief; not as is the custom 
of your sex ; expending time and words, as though 
they had no value. 

Beatrice. — Alas ! my husband, this from you, and 
that so undeserved 1 Ah 1 me, 'tis a discovery, sad 
indeed, when we perceive that our idols are but 
stone ; cold, dull, inanimate, and deaf to our prayers. 

Malcour. Beatrice, have I not told you there are 
moods with me, in which it is unwise to force me into, 
conversation ; seasons, in fact, in which I am so 
busied with my thoughts, that 1 would fain shut out 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 29 

all knowledg-e of the outside world. In moments such 
as these, 'tis solitude alone that I desire. 

Beatrice. Still, still, the same old strain ; deceiving 
most where it appears most plausible ! 

Malcour. As I'm alive, your manner startles me. 
What does it mean ? 

Beatrice. Extinguish not the light of conscience ; 
and therein you may see the truth. Need I say more ? 

Malcour. Tut, tut, Beatrice, this is nonsense ; the 
merest folly on your part. 

Beatrice. Not so. I now am past that time, when, 
like a child, I could be set aside ; contented still to 
dream and dream ; unconscious of the real world in 
which I live. 

Malcour (aside.) 'Tis clear she knows the worst. 
I knew the voice of scandal would defeat my plans. 
(To Beatrice.) Sweet wife, some other time your 
wishes shall be heard. At present, I have neither time 
nor inclination for the subject. 

Beatrice. Nay, nay, if this had been enough, I had 
been, long ere this, like Niobe, a monument of silent 
grief. But no ; 'twere easier by a dew-drop to appease 
the flaming fires of a vexed volcano, than to extinguish 
that which burns within an injured woman's breast. 
If you would have me silent, you must change my sex, 
my personality ; but until then, I can not feel this 
aching void within my heart, and say to my despairing 
soul, be still. 

Malcour. And has it come to this ; to this, the 
worst of all my troubles, and that which I feared the 
most ? But is not this adversity's mode of making 
war, contented not to conquer by one ill, that she must 
overwhelm us with a legion ? 

Beatrice. Nay, rather say is it the proper course of 
manhood, first to sacrifice itself in the pursuit of vice, 
and then by a deception, make the evil doubly great ? 
Alas I for me, that this should be the end of all my 
fondest dreams ; those dreams in which my love por- 
trayed a future full of golden joys and chaste delights ; 
a Paradise, in fact, in which our souls should move in 
gentle harmony, and all things catch the sweet vibra- 



30 CHANCES AND CHANaKS. 

tion of our thoughts. Such were my hopes. What 
they are now, are answered by those gathering clouds 
which you have conjured up by your dark deeds. 

Malcour. So, so, my gentle one, this is your posi- 
tion ; is it ? Come, come ; this being the case, 'tis 
best that we should part. When husbands lose the 
confidence of their wives, 'tis time there be an end. 
Besides it suits me in my present mood, that I be free 
and unrestrained. The world is wide, and there is 
room for both of us. 

Beatrice. The world indeed is wide. Bat be you not 
deceived ; it is not wider than a woman's love ; that 
wondrous power which defies all time, all space ; 
o'erleaping even death, to live forever in another life. 

Malcour. Beatrice, I have resolved that we must 
part. For your own happiness, it is better that it 
should be so. 

Beatrice. No, no ; you can not, shall not leave me 
thus. See how my heart attuned to yours in happier 
hours, seeks still for its accustomed sympathy ; while 
folding you within these arms, I swear there is no 
world to me where you are not ; no light, no beauty 
where you are not as the sun, the source of all my life. 

Malcour. Oh 1 woman, woman ; yours is indeed a 
power which might make the strength of Hercules ap- 
pear a child. As a man, I feel it ; I acknowledge it. 
But ah ! it is too late ; too late. 'Tis painful for the 
diseased eye to look upon the light ; and so it is with 
me. In the serene expression of your purity, I see 
myself not as I was, but as I am. This is too much ; 
the picture startles me. I can no longer look upon the 
sight. That mirror is indeed a faithful one, when vice 
beholds itself in virtue's glass. Oh ! no, it is too 
much ; I can not bear the sight. (Going). 

Beatrice. As I'm alive, you shall not leave me thus; 
no, not even though you were a fiend a thousand times 
moi-e dark than what you are. That you have fallen, 
I admit ; and with my copious tears deplore the fact. 
But, let me ask you, is not human nature at its best, 
a poor, weak, unreliable thing ? Ay, even that the 
best men sometimes fall within the meshes of an un- 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 31 

expected snare 1 Nor is this all. With tliem the 
gentle dew of mercy is their heritage. Why should it 
be otliervvise with you ? 

Malcour. No more, Beatrice, no more. Henceforth 
our spheres of life are far asunder as the poles. Yours 
is that fairer portion, where the light of virtue fills the 
world with a perpetual glory. Aline, that darker state 
where vice enthroned, engenders foul corruption and 
disease. (Going.) 

Beatrice. Not so, not so. Wen as the moon and 
stars keep o'er the earth their constant watch, so will 
I be to tliee. Death and destruction I can bear, but 
separation never. Within these arms ; here is your 
world. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. — A parlor, handsomely far nistied. 

Enter Eddora and Mortimer. 

Mortimer. Can it be possible that she suffers this 
unmoved? To my mind, such conduct is enough to 
sicken any woman, 

Eudora. And so it doubtless will. But you must 
bear a little patience ere she can be so far weaned as 
to regard your suit with favor. It is by small degrees, 
with subtlety combined, more than by forcible attempts, 
that we must take the citadel. 

Mortimer. Patience indeed ! Pray tell me what 
have I to do with patience, now that all my plans 
have been fulfilled, and Fortune, like a benignant 
goddess, smiles upon my hopes? Instead of living 
still in patient waiting, this is the time when svfeet 
fruition should succeed expectancy. Pry'thee, there- 
fore, do not trifle with my feelings. 

Eudora. Believe mc, I have done my best ; suggest- 



32 CHANCES AND CHANGE?, 

ing here and there such thoughts as in the end will 
bring forth fruit such as we desire. 

Mortimer. The process may be wise, but 'tis too 
slow — at least too slow for nie. 

Eudora. Althougli some women may be purchased 
by the merest show of flattery, a little tinsel, anything 
in fact which seems ; it is not so with all. In this 
respect, though there may be of Helens more, we still 
will sometimes meet with a Penelope, serenely power- 
ful in her chastity. 

Mortimer. Can it be possible then that I am to be 
defeated thus while yet my star seemed daily brighten- 
ing in its glory ? No, no, it cannot, must not be. 
'Tis but an idle weakness, which would set the feeble 
flicker of a woman's virtue 'gainst the pressure of 
temptation. Do you devise the means, and I will stake 
my chances on my powers of persuasion. 

Eudora. It is her custom in the silent hours of the 
night to bewail her fate, unheard by any mortal ear. 

Mortimer. A golden chance, while she laments her 
fate, to tempt her with the promise of a brighter 
future. This night let it be done. 

Eudora. Hence with me, and I will secrete you in 
her favorite haunt. But, mark me, though your tongue 
be dipped in honeyed eloquence, I do not promise you 
success. 

Mortimer. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. Be-. 
sides, if even I should fail, I am no poorer in my 
failure. Let us away at once. \_Exeunt. 

Scene II. — A garden — JVighf. 
Enter Mortimer. ^ 

Mortimer. A glorious night, and well adapted to 
the subtle pleading of love's sweet discourse. But 
soft, methinks I see the first fair glimpses of the rising 
moon. {Looking attentively.) Yes, yes, 'tis she ; the 
brightest star of all earth's brightest constellations. 
Here will I hide myself. Where Cupid is most sly, he 
oft is most successful. \_GonGeals liimaelf. 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 33 

Enter Beatrice. 

Beatrice. Let me reflect. Can it be so that T, who 
but a few months since beheld the world as 'twere a 
mirror, wherein each moment seemed a thing' of beauty 
and a form of joy ; that I, for whom the sun and moon 
and all the stars seemed but as music's sweetest in- 
struments, keeping time with the harmonious flow and 
rhythm of my thoughts ; that I, the sweet possessor 
of all these, should come to this ? Alas 1 it is a cruel 
lot when we, being so near heaven, are so suddenly 
plunged into the abyss of woe. 

Mortimer [coming forward). And yet, fair angel, it 
may happen that the clouds will unexpectedly break, 
and fortune once more scatter roses in your path. 

Beatrice. Sir, what may this mean? This bold in- 
trusion ill becomes a gentleman. 

3Iortimer. Pardon me, madam, if in my zeal and 
warmth of soul I have o'erstepped the limits of discre- 
tion. If I am captivated by your charms, it is the 
beauty which enslaves that you must blame, and not 
the slave for being enslaved by beauty. 

Beatrice. Your language startles me. Know you, 
sir, to whom you speak ? 

Mortimer. To one who in mj' earlier days I oft have 
looked on with a tender eye ; my fond imagination 
dreaming oft of golden hours yet to be — sweet seasons 
wherein our souls should melt into a soft embrace, and 
morning ever wake us to delight. 

Beatrice (aside). Can this be Action or reality ? 

Mortimer. These were my thoughts and these my 
sentiments ; when in an instant came a change ; a 
cruel change, which shattered all ray hopes. I had a 
friend ; he also saw, admired, and succeeded. 

Beatrice. My husband ? 

Mortimer. Ay, madam, your husband, and till then 
my friend. Thus you have heard the past. Now may 
I tell you of the present ? 

Beatrice. Enough I have already heard. The se- 
quel would offend me as a wife. 

Mortimer. Nay, nay, thou beauteous being, repulse 



34 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 

me not with the cold words of an indignant virtue. 
Reflect on your position, and then tell me if you find 
no warrant for my suit. Indeed, think you that beauty 
such as yours was meant for nothing- better than the 
chilling blast of cold adversity ? Look on the pic- 
ture ; then on that which I would offer you as your 
future. 

Beatrice. Beware, sir, lest you place too slight a. 
value on ray womanhood. 

Mortimer. Be mine the task to cherish, not to mar 
the beauty of so fair a flower. 

Beatrice. Sir, do you perceive this ring ? (Shows 
wedding ring). As an expression of that love which 
once I gave ; and having given once, can never give 
again, it is a sj'^mbol of eternity. As such, let it pro- 
claim me sacred, though my troubles may invite com- 
passion. 

Mortimer. 'Tis but a little effort that it costs, no 
more. Say if you will, that you will take my words 
into your private thoughts, and ponder them. Tliis 
done, I will believe myself the richest man in all this 
wealthy universe. Denying this, then would I have 
you think that you are heaven's moon, and I a maniac 
who adores thee. (Kneels to her). 

Beatrice. Arise, sir, and desist. As a man of honor 
you will encroach no farther on an unprotected 
woman. (Mortimer rises). 

Mortimer. So beautiful, and yet so cruel ! 

Beatrice. Henceforth I charge you to be silent, sir ; 
while also do you learn that woman is above this pit- 
eous reasoning which would hold her favor as a thing 
to trafiic for. Among the countless treasures which 
this world affords, a woman's reputation is the fairest 
gem ; her love the only thing which knows no price 
but love ; her virtue that which shines with its own 
radiant light, though sun, and moon, and stars conceal 
themselves. What, therefore, though the clouds 
should gather, and my path be dark ? Shall I, for this, 
forget myself, and sacrifice my womanhood ? No, 
never, never. 

Mortimer. From lips so fair, such words of cruelty 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 35 

ne'er Bhould come. Deal with me as you will, I will 
be still your slave. 

Beatrice. No more, I'll hear no more ; nor is there 
aught upon this earth that can dissuade me from my 
resolution. If it be so, that I must suffer for my hus- 
band's faults, so let it be. Far better this, than quench 
that lig-ht, which having lost, makes me unworthy of 
my sex. If I be rich in virtue, I am still myself. If 
poor in this, then poor indeed. [^Exit. 

Mortimer. The tide has turned ; and fortune favors 
me no more. \_Exit. 

Scene III. — A Room dimly lighted. 

Malcour, rousing as it icerefrom sleep. 

Maloour. It is of no avail ; I cannot sleep. The 
mind disturbed denies the body rest. But hark, did 
not I hear a sound? Who can be moving at this si- 
lent hour? 

Enter Isabel. 

Why, sweet daughter, how is this ? Methought 
tliat long ere this you wore soft hushed within the 
oblivious world of sleep. 

Taahel. Did not I hear you call ? It seemed to me 
I surely heard your voice. 

Malcour. Perchance you did. It fs a habit that I 
sometimes have to think aloud. But no matter, sweet. 
Do you retire to your rest. My thoughts will soon 
have past; and I will follow your example. 

Isabel. Methought the night was meant for sleep, 
and not for thinking. Here will I rest a while. 
(Throws herself on a lounge). While yet this cloud is 
on your brow I feel I should be near. 

Malcour. While I in contemplation of night's silent 
beauty may haply find an antidote to my troubled 
mind. (Sits at the window and looks out). 'Tis mid- 
might ; and all nature seems as 'twere a sleeping in- 
fant, smiling on it's mother's breast ; while man, ex- 
hausted by his daily toil, sinks into a sweet forgetful- 



36 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 

ness of life. For me alone there is no peace. Oh ! 
conscience, conscience, whei'efore is this so ? (Rises). 
Ay, even that 1 seem a lone and outcast wretch, for 
whom the darkness is more welcome than the day ; all 
things beneath the moon appearing hag'gard, wild, and 
most unseasonable ; the universe all out of joint ; and 
I the inmate of a world wherein each thought is 
but a knell that calls me to the grave. (A moment- 
ary pause). Yes, yes, the grave ! There is the end 
to which it seems that I am tending fast, and where 
alone I can forget my troubles in the sleep of death — 
that endless sleep, the only boon the wretched mind 
can feel. If, like a fool, I cling to life, 'tis but to die 
ten thousand deaths in living. If I should die, who 
knows but in the change I may be plunged in Lethe's 
stream, and thus blot out all memory of the past. It 
may be so, it must be so ; whereas it is a vulgar su- 
perstition only which deters us from the grave 

{Goes to the closet, from which he takes a dagger, and 
then continues, approaching Isabel.) 

She sleeps, unconscious of the storm that rages in 
her father's breast. A thought ! a thought 1 Me- 
thinks I'll take her with me to another world. And 
yet, if I should kill her now while yet the blush of 
heaven lingers Qn her virgin brow, and virtue breatlies 
through all her thoughts ; then may it seem indeed 
indeed enough to make the very angels weep. But 
wherefoi'e do I pause ; affrighted from my purpose by 
these idle sentiments ? It shall be done ; it must be 
done. Sleep on, therefore, gentle angel, as yon are ; 
nor shall you stir from your sweet dreams, till waking 
in another world, you thank the father^'s hand which 
freed you from this life of sorrow, disappointment, and 
dull care. Come, deatli, thou friend of all who have 
no friend beside. 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 37 

As he is in the act of killing her, enter Beatrice and 

EUDORA. 

Beatrice. Great heavens I Malcour, how is this ? 
Have you so far fallen as to stain your hands with in- 
nocent blood ? 

Ilalcour. 'Tis but a short-lived reverie, nothing 
more ; a passing mood in which my thoughts run wild, 
and lead me on I know not where. 

Beatrice. Not so. As you well know, this is tlio 
truth half told, and not that frank confession due me 
as your wife. 

Eudora. Rich in guile, and practised in deceit, you 
have deceived us oft. Between us now let there be 
truth 

Ilalcour. Think not, cold, heartless woman, I will 
yield a tame submission to your words. Yours is that 
part where every thought conceals an artifice. Think 
not, therefore, that I understand you not. 

Eudora. Evading still the point at issue, eh ? But 
it is ever thus. When villains seem most sensitive, 
then are they most to be suapected. 

Malcour. Beatrice, you love me not; else would you 
not permit such language in your presence. 

Beatrice. It is not what is charged, but what is 
proved, that makes up our condemnation. So let it 
be with me ; while furthermore I swear, that could 
you look within my soul, and see the deep, undying 
love that, like the Vestal Virgin's fire, burns forever 
there ; then would you see, indeed, a sight that might 
resolve you into tears for all the wrongs that you have 
done. For you, however, where is the warrant for 
that crime which even now you had committed but 
for our unexpected presence ? Oh ! ]\[alcour, Malcour, 
that it should have come to this 1 

Malcour. It is the hand of fate that makes us what 
we are. 

Eudora {contemptuously). As though there ever was 
a fate, the thread of which we did not weave i'or our- 
selves I Shame, shame, say T, upon the man who bol- 
sters up his sins by a device so base as this. [Exit. 



38 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 

Malcour. So moves the world ; and we are driven 
by this all-pervading atmosphere of circumstance, 
this mighty power which controls us all in spite of 
ourselves. Believe me, Beatrice, that this thing which 
we call murder, is the only mudicine suited to 
despair. 

Imhel {waking from her sleep). What do I see and 
hear ? Am I awake, or do I dream ? 

Malcour (aside). Would that I had killed her ere 
she had discovered such a scene as this. 

Isabel. Still silent ! Tell me, my good mother, 
wherefore is this so ? Or you, my ever kind and 
watchful father, tell me why is this — this cloud upon 
your brow, this marked excitement in my mother's 
manner ? Methouglit I also heard some strange allu- 
sion made to murder. 

Malcour. If it be murder to extinguish life when 
there is nothing left for which to live ; if it be mur- 
der to transplant a tender rose that it may bloom un- 
sullied in another world ; then, my gentle Isabel, did 
I seek to murder thee. Yea, even as I stood upon the 
brink of desperation, struggling with my conscience 
and my love, it seemed to me 'twere better we should 
leave this world of sorrow, darkness and despair. 
Say, gentle angel, will you go ? The world beyond is 
brighter than the one which is. 

Isabel. Alas ! for me, 'tis but the wreck of what 
was once my father that I look upon. Teach me to 
do whate'er I may, and I'll obey, if it will only bring 
my father back to me. But oh ! to see you thus, the 
victim of a wild, disordered brain ; this is enough to 
bid me water all the earth with tears, put out the sun, 
and drape the universe with black. 

Beatrice. While I enshrouded in a widow's deepest 
weeds, can only weep and weep, and, weeping, curse 
the hour I was ever born. Say, say, ray husband, is 
it so that the fair sun will rise no more to kill the 
night ? 

Malcour. 'Tis past, 'tis past, and ne'er will come 
again. For me this world has now become a charnel 
house, wherein I can perceive no forms but those of 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 39 

spectral sliape — grim demons as it were, whose only 
pleasure is to torture me. 'Tis midnight with me in 
my soul, and I can look no more upon the light of 
day. 

Beatrice. But Heaven is so kind, that the recording 
angel ofttimes blols out our evils with a tear. 

Malcour. In vain we pluck the arrow from the 
wound ; supposing thus, we can dispense a healing 
balm. Let him who can, drag out a weary life ; be- 
lieving that by torture self-inflicted he can cleanse the 
stain of sin. Not so with me. High as the stars 
above the earth, my earlier thonglits did soar above 
tlie common herd of men. Temptation came upon me 
in an evil hour, and I fell. Now I am fallen, I can 
never live to think of what I was by what I am. 
Then to the gates of death ; stay not my passage ; oh! 
forbid me not. When I am gone, your precious tears 
will make fair flowers grow upon my grave. Alive, I 
am unworthy of your love. Farewell, farewell. {To 
Isabel.) And you, my tender violet, fare thee well. 
{To both.) Be thus when I am dead; and, by the 
sweet celestial purity of your souls, you will attract 
the choicest hosts of heaven as your guardians. 
Where virtue is, there in an especial sense is the pro- 
tecting eye of the Omnipotent. Farewell, farewell. 
In death alone is my relief. 

{As he is in the act of stabbing himself, Franklin entei's 
hastily, and seizes his ai^m,) 

Franklin. Hold, madman, hold. This must not, 
shall not be. 

{Curtain falls to slow music.) 



40 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 

ACT Y. 

Scene I. — A Street. 

Eater Arthur and Beaumont. Beaumoxt attempting to 
speak. 

Arthur. Be still, thou vulgar, prating knave. Al- 
ready is the air too thick with falsehood and deceit. 

Beaumont. Believe me, it is but the truth I speak. 

Arthur. Truth, indeed ! Tut, tut, I would as soon 
believe the magpie could produce the music of the 
nightingale, as that you could speak the truth. Why, . 
man, turn where I will, 'tis falsehood everywhere. 
Ay, e'en that baseness penetrates into the minutest 
corners of society. Appearances deceive ; and no 
man is that which he seems. 

Beaumont. The danger is with partial sinners, as it 
is with partial saints. They form a sort of undivided 
territory whereon the hosts of light and darkness al- 
ternate in their possession ; whereas with those who, 
like myself, believe in sin by wholesale, we at least 
have this advantage, that we sin consistently. 

Arthur. And in the face of this, you dare to say 
that 3^ou can speak the truth ? 

Beaumont. The man who dares to do his misdeeds 
in the noon-day sun needs not the cloak of sly hypoc- 
risy. But enough of this. In our dealings you will 
find me honest. 

Arthur. The Devil was sick, the Devil became a 
saint ; the Devil was well, the Devil a saint was he. 
May it not be so with you ? 

Beaumont (showing his purse, which is somewhat torn 
and empty). See you this purse ? 

Arthur. Such as it is, I do. 

Beaumont. As empty as a woman's promise, eh ? 

Arthur. More properly, like most men's characters, 
full of holes. But what of this to our purpose ? 

Beaumont. A tale there hangs thereby, as you shall 
see ; for wliile my comrades have their pockets full to 



CHANCES AND CnANGES. 41 

overflowing through their foul play, I am without a 
dollar. Thus do you understand me.? 

Arthur. Eevenge ! Is this your aim ? 

Beaumont. Witliin that sentence you embrace it 
all. My soul is up in arms. My injuries demand re- 
dress. 

Arthur. Can I rely upon your word ? For mark 
you, if you trifle with me in my present mood, I'll deal 
with you as though you were a rat ; so soon will I 
despatch you to the shades below. 

Beaumont. Believe me, it is as I say. If you 
would wreak your vengeance on the men who by their 
base insidious plots did bring the generous Mulcour to 
his ruin, I am your servant. 'Twixt them and me 
there stands a large account. Till I have settled it, 
I'll have no thoughts but those of vengeance. 

Arthur. This being the case, be thou my slave. ■ 
When rogues fall out, the honest man obtains his due. 
Come, come, let us at once to our end ; for vengeance 
to be fruitful must be swift. (Exeunt ) 

Scene II, — A Room scantily furnished. 
Isabel alone, and in mourning. 

Isabel (trimming lamx)). Truly this is a most uneven 
world, in which the innocent often bear the burdens of 
the guilty : while those who merit least seem most to 
bask iu fortune's suushiue. 

Enter Beatrice, aha in mourning. She enters without 
speaking, and takes a seat as if lost in thought. 

Isabel. How now, sweet mother, do you feel re- 
freshed ? 

Beatrice. Thank you, my child. I have had a 
pleasant sleep ; and oh ! such pleasant dreams, 

Isabel. Thrice happier, then, did you sleep on, un- 
conscious of your troubles. 

Beatrice. Not so. To do this would be to merge 
myself into a dreamy nothingness ; ji state which none 
could well desire. 



42 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 



Isabel. If in losing our consciousness, we should 
also lose our troubles, are we not richer by the loss ? 
For my part, I would much prefer annihilation to thi's 
life of sorrow, sadness, and despair ; this endless 
chain, where fear succeeds to fear, and ills on ills at- 
tend. 

Beatrice. In our gloomiest hours the star of hope 
forsakes us not. Though poor in earthly goods, we 
still are blest in this — that we can hope. But you 
shall hear my dream. 

Isabel. Be it so. But, mother, you are so pale. I 
fear the excitement, little as it is, is too much for 
you. 

-Beatrice. 'Tis but the outflow of my feelings. I 
will be better presently. (Weeps, leaning on Isabel). 

Isabel. Come, come, I'll hold your heart to mine. 
Here you shall weep your full, while in my love I'll 
kiss your tears away. (Aside). And yet 'tis hard 
that one so pure, so true, should suffer thus. 

Beatrice (recovering herself). Now for my dream. 
Do you attend, and see if you agree with my interpre- 
tation. It was the solemn rite of my dead husband's 
obsequies ; and as I stood beside the corpse, deep 
buried in my grief; behold a marvelous scene occur- 
red. The coffin sank into the yawning earth, but my 
dear husband stood erect as when alive. An instant 
more, when lo ! a bright and glorious rainbow spanned 
the arch between the heavens and the earth ; a thous- 
and sweet, harmonious voices fell upon my ear ; and I 
awoke. 

Enter Fkanklin, excitedly. 

Franklin. And waking, live to find your di'eam is 
realized ; while even now returning sunshine bids you 
lay aside these suits of woe. For weeping we will 
substitute the songs of praise ; and in the fullness of 
our new-born joy discard all thoughts that are not 
tinctured with the beauty of the smiling morn. 

Beatrice. Why, good Franklin, how is this ? So 
unlike is it to your usual self, that I can scarce be- 
lieve my senses. Till now your voice has been the 



CHANCER AND CHANGES. 



43 



one to counsel resignation to my fate. Whence, there- 
fore, is this change by which the man of gray hairs, 
wisdom and experience, gives place to youthful buoy- 
ancy ? 

FranJclin. If I am happy, 'tis on your account — Srst, 
that Malcour is not dead, as we supposed ; and sec- 
ond, that Arthur has returned ; a man in all respects, 
and bent upon the resurrection of your hopes : his 
happiness. 

Beatrice. My husband living 1 No, no ; this is too 
much ; a joy too sudden to be true. I will regard it 
but as 'twere a passing meteor which illumes my 
sky ; a moment it enchants me by its beauty, and 'tis 
gone. 

Isabel. A bright and glorious dream, too beautiful 
to be true . 

FranUin. Think you, my children, I would trifle 
with your feelings thus ? Not so. My tidings, though 
appearing strange, are not more strange than true. 
But see, even as I speak, experience proves my words. 

Enler Arthur hastily. 

Arthur. Isabel ; my life, my angel ! 

Uahel. Auspicious hour tliat restores my hopes. 
(Falls into Arthur's arms. J (Arthur.) Sweet soul ; 
the shock is too much for her nerves. Forgive me, 
love; I am to blame for being so sudden. 

Isabel (recovering herself). Not so, my love ; not 
so. Indeed, should all my life to come be_ one con- 
tinued scene of troubles, the pleasure of this blissful 
moment would suffice to counterbalance all my griefs. 
And yet I scarcely can believe I am awake. 

Arthur. Joy for the present moment, sweet one ; 
joy to-day. Let this be our maxim for the present. 
Meantime, I would unto your good mother, pay my 
due respects. I know she spurned me once, but tliat 
is past. (Ajoproachinrj Beatrice, and leading Isabel by 
the hand). {To Beatrice.) Madam, with all due re- 
spect, I pray you to accept me as your son. _ For the 
past, I can only say, let it be buried in oblivion. For 



44 '- "cnANCE3 AND CHANGES. 

the future, I do pledge myself allied to you in all the 
bonds of friendship, love, and duty. 

Beatrice. Accept, good sir, my thanks ; though in 
my poverty, I am even poor in this. To-morrow v^ill 
be the anniversary of my wedding day. Let it be 
therefore chosen as the time when you shall seal your 
loves in the sweet bonds of matrimony. 

Isabel. Oh ! blissful hour, v/hen first a mother dares 
to speak in nature's voice ; nor base nor mercenary 
thoughts impede the course of love. 

Arthur. Say also thrice auspicious day, ■which 
-giving love so great a victory, shall also bring your 
father back to life. (To Franklin. J Franklin, 1 will 
meet you in an hour hence. (To Isabel.) Meantime, 
my love, let us enjoy the sweet fruition of this blissful 
hour. 'Twill be a little while at most 'ere Cynthia will 
have kissed the western sea. Ere she has left us, I 
would bid her send Aurora in all haste, arrayed, too, 
in her fairest robes ; that when she comes, awaking 
nature .seeing it such a glorious morn, the birds will 
sing their sweetest song, and singing, wonder why the 
earth appears so bright. 

Isabel. And all the world will answer, "'tis our 
wedding day." Say is it not so, sweet love ? (Exe- 
unt Arthur and Isabel, j 

■Beatrice (weeping). Still, still, they come ; but 
they are tears of joy and not of sorrow ; the only 
tribute I can pay to that Superior Power which has 
once more bid my drooping soul arise. A long, long 
night it seems, that I have passed ; and now the first 
fair tokens of the dawn show in the east. The night 
was dark, and I had manj'^, many changing dreams. 
Now it appears I stand abroad in the fresh air, and 
feel the fragrant breath of morning on ray brow. Yes, 
yes ; I can but raise my eyes to Heaven, filled with 
tears, since therein I may best express the fullness of 
my soul. (Exeunt.) 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 45 

Scene III. — A Wood — The Moon Rising — Malcour 
. Comes from a Cave — His Appear ance Being 
Somewhat Dilapidated. 

Malcour. Alone, yet not alone ; since even in the 
deepest stillness of tlie night, I can not put my con- 
sciousness away. Ay, even that the calmness of this 
place becomes a torture to my mind, in that it turns 
ray thoughts within, and in my solitude, makes me 
more fully know myself. Here, here it lies. The dis- 
ease is within, and therefore all the beauty of the 
world is lost to me ! Ah ! verily, it is a truth, that he 
who has his conscience clear, may everywhere enjoy 
the bright and glorious da}'^, while he whose soul is 
tainted with the guilt of sin, benighted walks beneath 
tlie midday sun ; in his distracted slumbers, starting 
e'en as if pursued by angry demons, of most hideous 
shape. ( Voices loithout.) But hark, did I not hear the 
sound of human voices ? Methought I had escaped the 
thoroughfares of men. 

Enter Franklix and Arthur. 

Hold, gentlemen, this is my territory. You must 
advance no farther. 

Franklin. Fear not, Malcour, we are friends. 

Malcour. Friends indeed 1 For me there are no 
friends that are not parasites, while honesty is bat an 
empty name ; no more. No, no ; I have too deeply 
read mankind, to be deceived by this fair sounding 
phrase. 'T:s but a name invented to deceive ; full of 
fair seeming, it is true, but at the core, delusion all. 
Besides, I have selected this abode, because I wished 
to bid the world adieu. 

Franklin. What if we prove to you that this is an 
instance where the hand of Providence intervenes for 
a beneficent purpose ? 

Malcour. And is there still a Providence ? Me- 
thought this was a vain delusion of my earlier days, 
an empty drcatn which many years of suffering long 
ere this hits scattered to tlie winds. Beliold in me an 



46 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 

instance of what little interest Pi'ovidence feels in the 
affairs of men. 

Franklin. Shame, Malcour, on such base and fiend- 
ish reasoning-. The ills which we endure are our own ; 
our blessings are from a superior Power. But of this 
enough. Accept our proposition to renounce this 
miserable life, and by the aid of Arthur's friendship, be 
as once you were ; — a man. 

Malcour. Why sirs, this is more like fiction than 
like fact. 'Tis but a few years since I spurned this 
man as though he were a worm, and now he comes to 
me as my deliverer. No, no ; this is too romantic to 
be real. Leave me, gentlemen, I beseech you. Leave 
me to myself. 

Arthur. Not so ; lest in so doing, we should undo 
that which we have already done. As you will see, 
there have been strange, mysterious forces operating 
in your interest. 

Malcour. Good sirs, I do entreat you trifle no more 
with the feelings of a broken spirit. With me, the 
time has now arrived when I can no longer sit be- 
neath a summer sky, and mark the fair, fantastic 
forms which light and cloud assume as they embrace. 
'Tis now the time when black-eyed night succeeds to 
day, and nature wears her darkest robes in common 
mourning with my sorrow. Surely this is a picture 
dark enough to warn away all jesting and frivolity. 

Arthur. Nay, by my soul, I will be heard ; nor is 
there aught but truth and friendship in my words. It 
was a night, just such a night as this ; yon glorious 
moon diffusing o'er the earth her silver light ; a dewy 
freshness breathing through the silent air ; all nature 
resting sweetly in its placid rest ; when lo 1 my 
mother's spirit stood before me. 

Malcour. Your mother's spirit 1 What, a ghost I 
Desist, I pray you, sir. {A moment's pause.) But 
what are ghosts to me, for whom each moment is some 
spectral shape, more hideous than all your ghosts ? 
Proceed. Your subject wins my ear. 

Arthur. Nay, start not in surprise till you have 



CHANCES AND CHANGES 



47 



heard tho rest. Thus do you listen. The smile of 
Heaven yet upon her face ; her eyes reflecting a 
celestial light more beautiful than many stars ; her 
voice as 'twere the softest of sweet music's gentle 
strains ; she spoke to me of jou. 

Malcour. Of me ; a man in whom the higher 
spheres can feel no interest 1 

Franklin. Still will you yield to the delusions of a 
diseased mind ! 

3Ialcour. Call it delusion, if you please. But, tell 
me, does there live a man who can escape his shadow ? 
Not so, good sirs. This never has been yet ; nor will 
it ever be. The world at best is but a mirror, wherein 
the reflex of our inner life determines what we see. 

Arthur. True as this is, 'tis also true that there is 
no state, however dark, but we may sometimes see 
the Angel Mercy beaming on us with a tender glance ; 
as when a mother looks upon her wayward child. 

Malcour. Almost, gentlemen, yon persuade me. 
But tell me, Franklin, how speaks the world concern- 
ing me ? . 

Franklin. As of a man, who meanfng well, while 
walking in his sleep fell down a precipice. Such are 
the words of some. 

Malcour. This is the opinion of the few. What of 
the many ? 

Franklin. What, of the vulgar herd? It matters 
not what they may think, when there is one who 
mourning for your loss as a true-hearted woman only 
can, still clings to past associations, and the memories 
of her early love. 

Malcour. Franklin, I beseech you name her' not. 
The whips and stings of an indignant world I may 
endure. But oh ! to think of her as she has been, and 
as she is ; this is too much. Yea, even as I speak, 
methiuks I see her tender eyes bedimmed with tears ; 
while gently floating heavenward, her prayers are as 
the i'rugrant breath of early morning flowers ; her 
every thought the deep expression of a wondrous love. 
Oh ! Franklin, what a heaven had I there ! But I 



48 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 

must hold my ton<^ae, since language is too feeble for 
my thoughts. ( Tarns aside deeply qff'ected.) 

Arthur. At last we sti-ike the key-note of his soul. 

Franklin {to Malcour). Your anguish, Malcour, I 
can but too well understand. It is the human in our 
nature which leads us into sin. It is the still small 
voice descending from above ■ which leads us to 
repent. 

Malcour. Our characters ai'e but slender wares, 
more easily broken than repaired. But oh ! to think 
of her ; there is the point that scourges me. Say, 
gentlemen, do you assure me her forgiveness ? 

Franklin. With all the fullness of a woman's love, 
I will engage that she receives you. 

Arthur. And so do I ; while also Isabel in the 
gentle ministrations of her love will nobly do her part; 
myself not wanting in my duty as your son. 

Malcour. Can it be true, or is it that I live an in- 
stant in some mystic realm I Say, gentlemen, is this 
real, or do I wander in my thoughts ; believing that I 
look once more upon the glorious sun ? 

Franklin. Dark as your night has been, there never 
was a night which did not have an end. Indeed, 
'twere strange were it not so ; since all men need at 
times the soft compassion of sweet mercy. 

Malcour. The dew of mercy falls not where 'tis un- 
deserved. 

Franklin. Go, ask the sun why on all men he pours 
his beams ; the stars, why on the good and bad they 
shine alike. Do this ; and by their answer you will 
learn why mercy is not partial in her smiles; and why 
in every corner of this universal earth, she seeks to 
bind the broken heart, and heal the raging fever of 
despair. 

Malcour. Auspicious hour, wherein earth and heaven 
meet in their embrace ! Lead on, good sirs, and I will 
follow you. If it be so that mercy lifts the veil of night, 
and in the place of dai-kness, bids me look upon the 
rosy east, it is not well that I should question, but 
obey. For thee, my solitude, fare thee well. I sought 
you for your charms. Now they are lost, farewell. 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 49 

Come on, good friends, if I must to the world ag-ain, 
let it be done at once ; lest hesitating, I may change 
my mind. [JExeunt. 



Scene IV. — A Room. 

Beatrice, looking out of Ihe window at the rising sun. 

Beatrice. All hail, thou glorious orb, that by your 
presence bids the world awake to life. 

JEnter Isabel. 

Isabel. So early up, sweet mother ? Methought 
that I should be the first to see the sun. Say, mother, 
does it not appear to you as though the earth upon 
this morn came nearer heaven ? To me it seems that 
even nature's silent things are breathing a deep 
beauty and an earnest praise such as 1 have never 
known before. 

Beatrice. It is the world within that makes the 
world without so bright. In fact, such is the nature 
of true happiness, that while it quickens all the finer 
elements of our being, it also makes the earth yppear 
more beautiful. Like twin sisters of celestial birth, 
happiness and beauty move always hand in hand. 

A ring at the door-bell. 

Isabel. Who can that be ? (Goes to side). Here 
are several vases of flowers, mother. Did you order 
them ? 

Beatrice. 'Tis well. Let them be set in such pro- 
fusion as will best express the fragrant beauty of our 
new-born hopes. 

Isabel takes fiowers and arranges them. 

Isabel. How beautiful they are. God might have 
made the earth without its flowers. But oh I had this 
been so, what gems of beauty we had lost? lu east- 
ern lands they talk in flowers, do they not ? 
3 



>50 CHANCES AND CHANGES. 



Beatrice. So it is said ; and well they may ; since 
after all, these are love's truest language, and the 
most perfect symbols of our purest thoughts. But it 
is getting late, and we have many things to do. 

[^Exeunt. 



Scene V. — The same. 

Enter Malcour and taken hu seat, deeply absorbed in 
thought. After a few moments he looks inquiringly 
around the room and rises. 

Malcour. Has it then come to this, that from a 
wandering spirit seeking rest, yet finding none, I 
breathe once more within a sphere where all things 
speak of beauty and of peace? (Approaches and ex- 
amines the floxmrs). Sweet flowers, too, those sweet 
expressions of our finest sentiments — affections, as it 
were, whose soft pulsations we can only hear when 
we have cleansed the dross from our souls. (The 
sound of music in the distance). But soft, did not I 
hear the sound of music ? Yes, there it is again. 
Oh I how it steals into my soul, and bids my weary 
spirit to forget the past. Yes, yes, at last 'tis peace 
where all before was darkness and despair. Bright 
visions, too, how beautiful they seem ! Fair forms, as 
though the fairest things of earth did vie with those 
of heaven. No, all of heaven, they are so passing 
beautiful. But see, she comes. The glorious east puts 
on its brighest hues ; and in her presence, beauteous 
Eden takes the place of death. 

Enter Beatrice, excitedly. 

Beatrice (rushing up to Malcour and embracing him). 
Malcour, my husband. 

Malcour (Beatrice leaning on him). Fair sonl, may 
heaven henceforth make me worthy of your love. (Kiss- 
es her affectionately). See, how she weeps, and in the 
purity of her tears makes e'en the virgin snow appear 



CHANCES AND CHANGES. 51 

impure : each tear, in fact, a radiant gem more beau- 
tiful than all the costly pearls of earth. (Looking at 
her intently and affectionately). No, no, it is not true 
that there exist no angels on the earth. The fault is 
with ourselves ; that in our baser natures we perceive 
them not. 

Beatrice (recovering herself). There, it is over now. 
The storm is past,. and we will rest securely in each 
other's love. 

Malcour. And let the past remain for ever in the 
voiceless grave. 

Beatrice. For ever in the silent sleep of death let it 
remain. All that I ask is, that you may be a wiser 
man for your experience. This done, then will our life 
henceforth become a glorious summer, full of charms 
and chaste delights. Will you not grant me this? 

Malcour. Think you, my angel, I could look on your 
fair face, and find myself so base as to refuse ? No, 
Beatrice ; it is, after all, the stern discipline of expe- 
rience which alone can make us men. This have I 
learned in sorrow and in tears. Now I awake to find 
my soul illumined by a new-born light. Be yours the 
task to keep its flame for ever bright and pure. In 
darker hours I withstood your influence. Now I am 
yours, with all my heart and soul. Be thou henceforth 
my angel, and my guide. 

Enter Isabel and Arthur. Isabel dressed as a bride. 
Embraces Malcour affectionately. 

Isabel. Thrice welcome hour that restores my father 
to these arms. Now may we say, indeed, the night is 
past ; and morning gives us promise of returning 
day. 

Malcour. A morn, indeed, whereon your bridal 
blushes give a new-born beauty to the earth ; while 
fair Repentance, following in the footsteps of Remorse, 
relumes my fallen soul, and lights me back to heaven. 

Arthur. Not to the past, but to the future let us 
look. It is the province of all men to err. It is the 
province of the wise man to renounce his sin, and woo 
the angel Virtue in the future. 



52 CHANCES AND CHANQfiS. 

Enter Franklin. 

Franklin. With all my heart, so may it be. Ex- 
perience teaches many things, but none more clearly 
than the fact that in virtue alone is happiness. 

Malcour. Shine on, fair virtue, thou celestial sun 
beneath whose presence even night is changed into a 
glorious, bright, eternal noon. Henceforth be thou my 
constant guest ; nor will I think of vice but to com- 
pare its vile proportions with your matchless beauty. 

Franklin. Be this your aim, and all the fairest joys 
of earth will answer to your bidding. The highest 
wisdom, after all, does not so much consist in what we 
know, as what we are. 



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